"Dunno. Some old duffer who's had too much sun."
As they wandered in the morning sunlight towards the sandwich shop to pick up lunch, Veitch put on the cheap sunglasses he had picked up at one of the department stores on Princes Street. He couldn't contain himself any longer. "I don't know how you can dump her, mate."
Church nodded, relieved it was finally out. "I know how you feel, Ryan. More than you might think. But after how I almost screwed things up before Beltane because I was so wrapped up in my own problems, I've got to keep my eye on the big picture. I learned the hard way that we all come second."
Veitch shook his head; the sunglasses masked his emotions from Church. "I hear what you're saying, but it's not right." His feelings were heavy in his voice, but he was managing to control himself. "She's one of us. We should look after our own."
"And maybe we can. There might be a way we can do what we have to do and save Ruth at the same time. I just haven't thought of it."
"Well, you better get thinking. It's your job."
"Why is it my job?" Church bristled. "Did I miss the election? How come I ended up leading this pathetic bunch?"
Veitch looked surprised, as if Church had asked the most stupid question in the world. "Course it had to be you. Who else could do it?"
"Shavi."
"He's got his own responsibilites. Listen, you know your strengths. Thinking, planning. Seeing the big picture."
Church grunted, looked away. "Well, I don't like it."
"You're good at it. Accept it."
"Okay," Church said. "Well, you accept this. The Pendragon Spirit, or whatever it is, is pushing all our strengths out into the open and yours are obvious too. You're not just the fighter, the warrior, you're the strategist. I've seen it in you-you're a natural at choosing the right path whenever we're in a tight spot. So here's your job: sort out how we can save Ruth and do everything else we need to do."
Veitch looked even more surprised at this, but after a moment's thought he said seriously, "All right, I'll take you up on that. But if I do it, you've got to give me a good hearing."
"Deal."
The relief on Veitch's face was palpable. As they crossed Princes Street, he said, out of the blue, "So what's happening with you and the big-mouthed blonde?"
Church shrugged. "We get on well. We've got a lot in common."
"I don't trust her."
"I know you don't. But I do. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Yes." He paused outside the sandwich shop and turned to Church. "She's got it bad for you, you know."
"So you're an expert on affairs of the heart now, are you?"
"I know what I see. Do you feel the same about her?"
Church shifted uncomfortably, then made to go into the shop, but Veitch stood his ground. "Everything is a mess these days," Church said irritably. "All I can do is get through each day acting and reacting, not thinking at all." He missed Ruth much more than he might have shown, but he kept quiet because he didn't want to give Witch any more fuel for his argument; but Ruth was the only one to whom he could truly talk. Her listening and gentle guidance had helped him unburden numerous problems. "Is that the end of the inquisition?" he asked sharply.
"One more thing. Something that's been on my mind. That dead girlfriend of yours. How you coping with that?"
Church winced at Veitch's bluntness. "You have got this strategy thing, haven't you? Checking up I'm not a liability?"
"No-"
"Yes, you are. You just don't realise it. Marianne's death doesn't haunt me any more. Neither does she, if that's what you mean. Since the Fomorii stopped bothering with us they've not sent her spirit out to make me suffer. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten they've still got her." He tapped his chest and then his head. "It's in here and it's in here. And one day soon I'm going to set her free and get my own back."
This seemed to satisfy him. "I just wanted to be sure."
Church watched him disappear into the shop with an increasing sense of regard. His skills as a warrior were growing stronger with each passing day, as if ancient history were shouting through his genes. The Pendragon Spirit had chosen well, each of them maturing into a different role, the resources most needed for the task at hand. Perhaps there was a chance after all.
As they made their way back to the hotel they noticed signs of activity on The Mound just beyond the National Gallery. Two police cars were parked across the road, lights flashing, and armed soldiers had been discreetly positioned near walls and in shadows in the vicinity. A crowd had gathered near the cars with a mood that seemed at once irritated and dumbfounded.
"Looks like trouble," Veitch said. "We should stay away."
"I want to find out what's happening."
He grabbed the arm of a man at the back of the crowd to ask for informa tion. "They're closing off the Old Town," he replied, obviously troubled by an event which seemed to shake the natural order. "Public safety, they say. If the Old Town isn't safe, what about the rest of us?"
"I hear there was some kind of Government laboratory up there doing top secret experiments and they had an accident," a middle-aged woman whispered conspiratorially.
"Now why would they do experiments where people live and all the tourists go?" another woman said with a dismissive snort.
A young man with a shaved head and a pierced nose butted in. "No, it's a serial killer. A pal o' mine went to a club up there last night and he dinnae return home. The word is a whole load of people were murdered."
Church listened to the theories bouncing back and forth until he was dragged away by Veitch tugging insistently on his arm. "One of the cops spotted us and went for his radio," he said. "Looks like we're still on the Most Wanted list."
Church was back soon after, this time with Laura. After discussion, they had decided that, despite the risks, they had to get to the Central Library in the heart of the Old Town to search for the information they needed. At least in the daylight the supernatural threat was minimised, but it increased the danger of them getting picked up by the police.
"Why couldn't they have closed the place off tomorrow?" Church grumbled as they surveyed one of the road blocks.
Laura fixed a relentless, icy glare on a woman who had been staring at her scars; the woman withered and hurried away.
"Don't pick on the locals. They don't have your power," Church said drily.
"I always use my powers wisely." Laura looked around surreptitiously, then fixed her sunglasses. The blockade at the foot of Cockburn Street was manned by one young policeman who kept glancing uneasily up the steeply inclining road behind him.
"God knows why I chose you. That blonde hair stands out like a beacon. It's not the best thing for subterfuge."
"Actually, I chose you, dickhead. And it's my beauty that attracts all the looks, not my hair." She scanned the street briefly before picking up an abandoned beer bottle at the foot of a wall. "What we need is a diversion."
Before Church had time to protest she hurled the bottle in an arc high over the policeman's head while he was glancing round. It exploded against the plate-glass window of a record shop, which shattered in turn. The policeman started as if he had been shot. Once the shock had eased, a couple of seconds later, he ran to investigate the shop, still obviously disorientated.
"There we go." Laura ran for the shadows of Advocate's Close, which disappeared up among the buildings.
"You like taking risks, don't you?" Church said breathlessly when he finally caught up with her at the top of the steep flight of stairs.
"Life would be boring without them." They both came up short against the eerie stillness which hung over the normally tourist thronged Royal Mile. "Spooky," she added.
"The Fomorii are getting stronger. They're slowly spreading their influence out from the castle to secure their boundaries. That's what you saw last night at the club." Church suddenly glanced back into the shadows clustered at the foot of the steps.